


The Thing About Happiness

by TheLadyArturia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 10:35:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18754711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLadyArturia/pseuds/TheLadyArturia
Summary: A Muggle AU. After Narcissa's untimely death, Draco leaves everything he ever knew behind to move to an obscure town and start a florist's shop in order to treasure something his mother loved and drown in his sorrows. An accidental meeting with Harry, the town's baker, who smells like and exudes joy, leads Draco down the path of searching for his own happiness.





	The Thing About Happiness

" _That's the thing about happiness. Sometimes, you don't see it until it hits you in the face. And other times, you won't find it even if you go looking for it. But most of the time, it's always there, just beneath the surface, waiting for you to close your eyes and take a deep breath and just let yourself fall into it."_

* * *

I sigh for the third time in ten minutes as I check my wristwatch and tap my foot impatiently on the pavement. Where is the bloody bus?

As though responding to my mounting frustration, the bus slowly turns the corner and eases to a stop in front of me, hissing like a deflating balloon as it lowers itself closer to the ground and the doors swing open.

I move aside as an elderly couple exits the bus and step on board, swiping my travel card against the electronic ticket reader in a hurry, intending to head to the back of the bus.

I pause abruptly as I notice that most of the seats are occupied, and as the bus jerks into motion, I swear under my breath and settle down on the foldable seats by the front, my impatience getting the better of me.

As I focus on the rhythmic clicking sounds of the heel of my brand new Oxfords against the vinyl floor, willing the bus to move faster, I belatedly register the blur of green passing by through the opposite window. It takes me a few seconds to realise that the bus isn't taking the city route, and I stiffen, inhaling sharply, unwilling to accept that my tardiness had caused to me to board the wrong bus.

"Shite," I swear as I begin to stand, wanting to confer with the driver on whether or not I was on the wrong route. The bus abruptly comes to a halt just then, and I lose my balance, stumbling to the side just as somebody hurriedly hops onto the bus.

An awkward tangle of limbs is followed by a flurry of sweet-smelling somethings raining down on us, and as I regain my balance, I find myself looking into startling green eyes as my own aghast expression is reflected in the man's square spectacles.

"I'm so sorry," he says in a rush, bending over to pick up whatever he had dropped and shove them into the wicker basket slung over his arm. "I'll pay for your shoes; I really am sorry."

At the mention of my shoes, I look down to see large, white dollops of some sort of cream on my otherwise gleaming Oxfords, and an alarmed squeak escapes my lips as I stare at my new shoes in horror.

"Everything alright back there?" The driver calls, but before I can respond, the bespectacled bane of my day answers first.

"All good; sorry 'bout that!"

"Right-o, then. Off we go!"

"Listen," the man says as he grabs me by the elbow and steers me to the closest seat. "Let me pay to get those cleaned—they look new."

"They are," I say, clearing my throat when my voice cracks, and finally look up to meet his worried gaze. "But there's no need. It was my own fault for choosing to wear such nice shoes on a public bus."

"But I insist," the man persists, and I sigh.

"Look, it was an accident. In fact, I blame myself for getting on the wrong bus because I wasn't paying attention."

The man's eyebrows fly up into his hairline in an exaggerated manner. "Are you sure you're on the wrong bus?"

I sigh and look away as I rummage in my pocket for my handkerchief. "I'm really not."

"Where are you headed to? Because this is the only bus that passes through here at this time, so you're probably on the right route."

I sigh again as I reach down to clean off my shoes and decide to wait until the next stop to have a chat with the driver.

The bespectacled man apologises again, but I've long since stopped paying attention to him, and once I'm back from confirming that I am, indeed, on the right route, he informs me that his stop has arrived. I return his sheepish smile with a forced one of my own, glad to have rid myself of his irksome presence, and return to my brooding. I remain that way until the bus pulls up at my stop, and I hurry to disembark, more than unhappy that the first day of my so-called new life had gotten off to such a great start.

* * *

Pansy drops by the shop later that week and laughs when I tell her that I take the bus everyday.

"You, the one and only Draco Malfoy, taking the bus into town like a commoner?" She flaps her wrist and rolls her eyes with a pompous laugh. "What has the world come to?"

"Did you come here for something, Parkinson, or am I simply obliged to bear with your obnoxious presence this morning?" I snap, hardly having the patience for her supercilious personality.

"I came because I was worried," she says without the slightest hint of concern as she looks around the still-empty room. "But I'm mostly here because your father asked a favour of me."

I sigh as I set the heavy box I'm moving with considerable force. "I was hoping you wouldn't say that because now I have even less reason to indulge you."

"Come on, Draco," Pansy says, gesturing to the large, wooden signboard hanging behind me. "A flower shop called  _The Narcissus_? Really? This is hardly a healthy way to mourn your late mother."

"How I mourn my mother is up to me," I say, already sick to death of Pansy's antics. "My father chooses to drown his sorrows by the bottle, while I choose to invest the inheritance my mother left me to bring her long-treasured love for flower arrangements to life."

Pansy hums in thought, her expression sobering. "That's the first time you've spoken about her since the funeral, you know."

I pause in my re-stacking to look at her. "If you're not here to help, get out."

She gives me a long, considering look before shrugging and spinning on her heel. "Well, I reckon I'll let your father know that there's no reason to concern himself over the wellbeing of his adult son leaving home to open a quaint flower shop in an obscure town."

"You talk too much," I mutter to myself.

"I heard that!" she calls as she pulls open the front door, causing the doorbell to chime. "And I'll be dropping by again next week. To buy a bouquet, of course!"

I roll my eyes as she exits the shop, and although I'm grateful for the peace and quiet, I can't help but swallow down the lump of loneliness that settles in my throat.

* * *

A week of commuting by bus has taught me two things: one, that the bus I got on accidentally on my first day actually takes the quickest route, and two, that the bespectacled man that ruined my brand new shoes is a baker a few blocks over from my shop.

Oh, and three, that he  _always_ smells like freshly baked goods.

So every time he steps onto the bus, I know it's him without even having to look, simply because he brings with him the sickeningly sweet scent of everything wonderful and scrumptious and pure.

And it makes me want to hurl.

Although I've succeeded in avoiding him every time by hiding my face, it's become exceedingly difficult as he seems hellbent on catching my attention.

Until, one fine day, the worries I thought would last only for a few bus stops had suddenly appeared in front of me, within the four walls of my very own shop, cornering me into paying him my full attention.

"Hi," he says in a cheery tone of voice. "I'm Harry, and I manage the bakery a couple blocks from here."

"Hello," I respond begrudgingly. "How can I help you today, Harry?"

"Well—" his gaze drops down to my nametag before returning to my face, his smile widening, "—Draco, I was wondering if you could make me a nice bouquet of fifty red roses."

 _How generic,_ I think to myself, unsurprised by his choice of flowers as I pluck a slip of paper from a notepad and slide it across the counter to him.

"Of course. If you could write down your details for me, I'll let you know when it's ready."

"Can I come pick it up this evening?" he asks as he pens down his information. "I have a big date with my girlfriend tonight." He's practically radiating happiness, and it makes me want to gag. "I'm going to propose."

"Congratulations," I say, donning my 'professional smile' and attempting to sound half as enthusiastic as he looks, at least for courtesy's sake. "I'm sure she'll be thrilled."

"Oh, I hope so." He laughs nervously. "I haven't really had  _the_  conversation with her, you know, and it could go either way."

_Oh boy._

"Well, good luck to you," I say, smile still in place, "and I'll have your flowers ready for you well before your big night."

"Thanks for that." He nods and wipes his presumably sweaty palms on the dusty apron I just notice he's wearing. He seems to have only just realised the same because he laughs awkwardly and says, "Forgot to take that off. Well, see you later, then."

"Bye."

I watch him leave, and for a long moment I feel a sense of emptiness overcome me. It takes me the rest of the afternoon to figure out why.

It was that damn sickly sweet aroma that clung to him everywhere he went and tricked people into thinking they were happy for a brief period of time.

* * *

"Hello, welcome to  _Narcissus—_ " I cut myself off when I turn around to see a forlorn Harry slink into the shop, looking like he had witnessed the end of the world.

I grimace, taking his haggard appearance to be a sign that the proposal didn't go well. "Didn't see you on the bus today," I say lightly, unwilling to be the one to open Pandora's box.

"I walked today," he says, taking a seat by the counter and letting out an awfully depressing sigh. "Do you mind if I hang out here for a bit? I closed the bakery early because I wasn't feeling too well but realised I couldn't go home since my girlf—since my  _ex_ -girlfriend is cleaning out her stuff."

I clear my throat, thoroughly unhappy with the situation I was being forced to endure, but something about the way he smelt like happiness but looked anything but happy made me pity his plight.

"Well, the pub nearby should be opening soon, right?" I say before the saner part of me has a chance to berate my stupidity. "I'm done for the day anyway, so I could close early and we could head there, if you wanted…?"

Harry looks up, his usually twinkling green eyes dull and morose. He is the embodiment of misery, and, somehow, seeing someone else being that unhappy makes me feel better. Although that is a pretty heartless thing to think, I figure, why not? Maybe watching Harry wallow in a puddle of self-loathing is exactly what my miserable self needed.

It was as good as killing two, wildly unhappy birds with one, long-anticipated stone.

So, I close up shop, and we make our way to the local pub. More than a few drinks in, and I realise baker boy is, unsurprisingly, a bit of a lightweight.

"Harry," I say as he nearly falls asleep at the table. "Maybe you should head home. You don't look too good."

"I don't feel too good either," he slurs.

_Oh boy._

"Alright, let's get you outta here before you throw up all over the place and incur the wrath of that very unhappy bartender."

"No!" Harry yells, flopping out of my grip. "I won't go home! Not when  _she's_  there, taking away every last bit of my broken heart."

"Oh boy," I say, and after an inordinately long period of convincing and consoling, I finally manage to get him to agree to leave the pub.

"But we're going to  _your_  place," he says as we stumble along the footpath.

"I don't think that's such a good idea."

"But I do."

I sigh and decide that having him crash at my place for one night is the lesser evil when compared to having to spend another hour convincing him to go home again.

"Alright, fine. Let's go."

"Yay!"

A considerable amount of stumbling, swearing, drunken crying, and a very uncomfortable cab ride later, we arrive at my little two-storey townhouse.

"Wow," Harry says, squinting upwards. "Is this all yours?"

"Yes?" I answer as I unlock the door, uncertain what  _all_ referred to.

"You must be loaded to own a house in this part of town. A two-storeyed one, to boot!" Harry shuffles inside, his eyes wide and shining as he surveys the interior, looking the most sober then than he had all evening. "I mean, I live in a shoebox, compared to this place."

"It's really not as big as it looks," I say, somewhat embarrassed at having my family's wealth thrown in my face—something I was used to flaunting, up until I moved to this humble little town.

"Ah," Harry says, ruffling his hair. "I'm suddenly sober and feel really bad about following you all the way home." He turns around, an uncomfortable smile on his face. "I mean, you've clearly been avoiding me all week, and now you've not only been forced to accompany my pathetic self all evening, but I even invited myself in here without permission."

I'm somewhat taken aback at having been called out in such a direct manner and can't think of anything else to do but acknowledge the situation.

"I haven't been  _avoiding_ you per se," I start to say but then change my mind. "Actually no, I take that back. I  _have_ been avoiding you, and I suppose that was wrong of me to do."

"Why?" Harry asks, looking like a hurt puppy. "Did I do something to offend you? Was it because I dropped cupcakes on your new shoes?"

I grimace, not wanting to have this discussion, but I decide that I may as well be honest since it's come to that. "Well, yeah, I suppose so. But it's also just…" I wave a hand vaguely. "The way you smell."

His eyes widen and he sniffs himself. "Sorry, it must be all the alcohol—I didn't know I had bad body odour."

"No, no," I say, now impatient. "It's not  _bad._ Quite the opposite, actually."

Harry looks confused, and I sigh, running a hand through my hair and mentally chastising myself. Maybe I had had a few too many drinks myself.

"I can't explain it. You always smell like freshly baked bread and pastries. And you always have this...this happy vibe about you. And I find it overwhelming."

Harry stares at me for a long moment, like he thinks I'm crazy—which I wouldn't blame him for thinking—and then nods. "Alright. I apologise if I've made you uncomfortable. I'll take my leave, then."

"Wait, that's not—"

"Oh, here," he says, stuffing a bunch of crumpled notes in my hand. "For the cab."

"Harry—"

"Good night, Draco. Thanks for keeping me company this evening."

And just like that, he was gone, leaving me standing in the middle of the entryway, feeling like an uninvited guest in my own home.

* * *

Another morning, another bus ride.

As we pull up at the sole bus stop in the middle of nowhere, my breath catches in my throat. A couple climbs on board, followed by a bespectacled man I knew a little too well. With his tousled, raven hair and eyes greener than the fields around us, he brings with him the usual wicker basket and the pungent aroma of something sweet.

The electronic ticket reader chimes as Harry touches his travel card to it, and as the bus jerks into motion, he quickly slips into the nearest empty seat.

The one right next to me.

I inhale sharply, startled to have the subject of my recent emotional conflict sitting beside me. I smell a whiff of the familiar sweet scent again and involuntarily turn my head in the slightest to inhale again.

Our eyes meet. He seems just as surprised to see me as I am him. His green eyes widen in the slightest, and the corners of his lips pull upwards in an awkward smile.

"Morning," he says, sounding less energetic than I would've expected. "Sorry about this; it was the only empty seat and I didn't notice you until just now," he rambles on, looking frazzled.

"Good morning," I reply, attempting to sound unconcerned. "Don't worry about it." I desperately want to put an end to the conversation, but guilt is clawing on my insides and Harry's sad eyes are clawing on my outsides, so I ask, "What's in the basket?"

He seems to perk up at that. "Blueberry scones. Would you like one?"

"I—"

"Or not," he interjects, laughing awkwardly, his shoulders drooping. "I mean, you're not supposed to eat on the bus anyway. What was I thinking…"

"Do…Do you mind if I drop by your bakery later today to grab some?"

Although it was just something I said in the spur of the moment, in order to appease my guilty conscience, Harry's blinding smile and glittering green eyes makes me feel like less of a terrible human being.

"Of course! I'll set the best ones aside for you!"

"You really don't have to…"

"Oh, no, I will."

Before I can argue further, the bus pulls up at a bus stop next to a quaint bakery, and Harry rises from his seat.

"Have a good day," he says, shooting me a bright smile, and before my baffled brain is able to come up with a response, he's stepped off the bus and the doors have swung shut.

I stare at the empty space in front of me, stunned, but for the first time in a very long time, instead of being left with a sense of loneliness, I'm left feeling a sense of nervous anticipation.

* * *

The one day I want to close up shop early is the day I'm swamped with customers. People drop into the shop every few minutes, and even if they don't buy anything, they simply walk around to admire the flower arrangements around the shop that I'd spent the past several weeks perfecting. Although I'm disappointed that my promise to drop by the bakery will have to wait, I'm thrilled to have my hard work acknowledged.

After a good day of sales, I'm winding up when I hear the bell chime. "Sorry, we're closed," I call from the back room as I hurriedly put down the basket of flowers I'm holding.

"Sorry," I repeat as I hurry to the front desk. "We're closed for the day."

Harry turns around with a wide smile, and I belatedly note that my heart skips a beat. "Hi," he says, cheerful as always.

"Hi," I respond, somewhat breathless. "I was just about to head down to the bakery."

"I walked past this afternoon while on an errand and saw how packed the shop was, so I figured you'd be swamped and thought I'd drop by instead."

He holds out a brown paper bag, and I'm assaulted by the scrumptious smell of scones coming from within. I swallow down my hunger, trying not to make it obvious that I'm starving, but Harry seems to notice anyway and laughs.

"I had a feeling you'd be hungry, so I brought this."

He holds up a rather large picnic basket that I hadn't noticed in my nervousness and grins. "Would you care to join me for a quick dinner? So I can make it up to you for the other night?"

"I'd love to," I say, swayed by the delicious smells coming from the basket, hoping he can't hear the ravenous rumbles my stomach is making. "Do you have to be somewhere else later?"

"Nope, I'm done for the day. Why?" he asks as I turn off the lights and we exit the shop.

"Oh, no, I just asked. You said a  _quick_ dinner, so I thought you had other plans."

Harry turns to face me, and there is something in the way he looks at me that I can't quite discern. He smiles, and in the dim lighting of the shopfront, the crinkles around his eyes stand out, making him look warm and homely, and I'm suddenly overcome by the urge to hug him and cry.

Shaking the feeling off, I let him lead the way, and we walk down to the little park nearby. We find a spot, Harry begins to unfurl a picnic blanket, and I'm left feeling disconcerted.

Is it really alright to accept this much kindness from a man I spurned for no other reason than because I couldn't stand how happy he was?

I swallow down the guilt and don a smile as Harry looks up at me and pats the blanket. As I settle down, Harry starts to unpack what I had assumed would be a simple meal but turned out to be a full-fledged, three-course dinner.

"I may have gone overboard," he says, sheepish. "But I find cooking and baking to be very de-stressing, and after...you know...I've just been making way too much food so I thought I may as well share."

"Have the two of you spoken since then?" I ask, despite myself.

Harry shrugs. "I won't lie, that proposal was more a last-ditch effort on my part to see if she really was invested in the relationship or not. I suppose I did it more for the shock value than anything else."

I stare at him, unsure of how to respond to this piece of information that was unlike everything I imagined the man to be. Harry runs a hand through his hair and chuckles at my befuddled expression. "You're probably thinking I'm a half-wit, and you're not wrong. But…I don't know. I guess I just wanted to exhaust all avenues from my end so that even if it didn't work out, at least I wouldn't regret not having done enough. You know?"

"Wow," I say, reaching for a scone. "You're one hell of an upstanding guy, you know that?"

"Not really," Harry responds, sounding oddly dismissive. "I'm rather selfish, if I say so myself. I just do what I want to do and impose that on other people. Like I did and am still doing with you." He gestures to the spread before us.

"It can be slightly overbearing at first," I admit, cautious. "But you clearly don't have any ill intentions, so it's not all bad."

Harry chuckles. "You know, now that we've properly spoken, I realise that first impressions really are deceiving."

I quirk an eyebrow. "How do you mean?"

He shrugs. "From our first few interactions—or lack thereof—I thought you were standoffish and cold, almost hostile." He smiles at me, and the waning sunlight catches his face at exactly the right angle, making his eyes glitter like emeralds. "But despite me dirtying your brand new shoes and then being overbearing to compensate for the blunder, you were not only nice enough to make me a beautiful bouquet of roses but also kept me company as I wallowed in self-pity—the latter of which you had no obligation to do whatsoever."

"Well," I say, scratching my ear awkwardly, "even a cold and mean person like me can pity a heartbroken man and indulge his self-loathing for a few hours."

Harry laughs, and I find myself looking away, still too tentative about reciprocating his unbridled happiness. I catch myself even as that thought slips through my mind, and I have the startling realisation that it was never how happy Harry was that I disliked, but rather it was my constant choice to remain unhappy that I loathed. And Harry's happiness was a continuous reminder of my own, self-inflicted unhappiness.

I exhale a ragged breath, winded by this moment of existential realisation, and attempt to calm my racing heart.

"We make quite a pair, don't we?" Harry says with a chuckle, as though reading my mind.

"That we do," I concede, stretching my legs out and tilting my head back as I decide that I'm going to take a leap of faith and let myself be moved by the unabashed joy Harry exudes.

I close my eyes and breathe deeply, revelling in the warmth of the setting sun caressing my face with its gentle, waning touch just as a soft breeze rustles through my hair, carrying with it the pungent scents and smells of the food and flowers around us. I sigh, allowing myself to drink in this moment of pure, unadulterated tranquility, and I'm suddenly grateful for everything that has happened so far, irrespective of the bumps and dips along the road. I find myself smiling, despite my previous moment of reflection.

When I open my eyes, I see Harry looking at me with a smile as soft as the twilight drenching his skin.

"Looks like you can do it too," he says, and there's a depth to his voice that I'd never noticed previously—something profound yet comforting.

"Do what?" I ask, feeling a lump form in my throat, the answer to his question already resounding within me even before he says it.

"Be happy."


End file.
